


Stranger Than Fiction

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, work contains fan fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:56:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James never ceases to surprise him . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlbsurfinbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/gifts).



> **Notes:** Thanks to divingforstones for being such a great beta, particularly this time round, when things got a bit hair-raising for a while, due to stress, time pressure etc.
> 
> __  
> **Edited notes with the addition of the second chapter:**  
>  This started life as a rather lighthearted, single chaptered fic. But, I got very interested in what might happen next, and the result is two additional, much longer, chapters. There's a change of tone, with chapter 2 in particular involving some angst (amongst other things!) But I assure you, all will be well in the final chapter! The fic has also become much more explicit.
> 
> Chapter 2 includes descriptions of fic from other fandoms (fandoms listed in the note at the end of chapter 2, in case you want to see what you're getting yourself into before you start reading it!)
> 
> The story is set in December 2012, so is after Series 6 of Lewis but before Series 7. It contains spoilers for Series 2 of BBC Sherlock. 
> 
> Warning for mentions of canon-consistent grief.
> 
> Also, warning for a very brief mention of suicidal thoughts in a character in one of the other fandom fan fics.
> 
> I'll add the same notes to chapter 2, for people who've already read the first chapter and skip ahead.

“What the hell’s fan fiction, when it’s at home?” Robbie’s come across something about one of the victims in a cold case that he doesn’t understand, and he just assumes James will be able to explain it to him; he’s learned over the years that there isn’t much James doesn’t know something about. 

But there’s a smirk forming on his sergeant’s long face. “I could be mistaken, but it sounds rather like fiction, that’s written by fans.”

“Yeah, all right, smartarse. Worked that out, meself.”

“Sorry, sir.” He’s still got a cheeky grin on his face. “It’s fiction, usually short stories, written by fans of TV programmes, films, books and so on. Posted on the internet, generally.”

“Never heard of it before. What kind of programmes and books?”

“All sorts. Dr Who; Sherlock; Harry Potter. Even Shakespeare.”

Robbie can’t get his head round it. “There’s fan fiction of Shakespeare?! Wouldn’t they just want to read the original, or—I don’t know—watch a film adaptation or something? Why on earth do they do it?”

James shrugs. “They do it for all kinds of reasons. To create more of the works they love. To correct things they think the original writers messed up. To explore and develop favourite characters.” He pauses. “To give their favourite characters sex lives.”

“Sex lives?!”

“Oh, yes. A lot of fan fiction is sexually explicit. Often involving two male characters. Rumpy pumpy, sir.” 

Robbie glares at the smug sod, but ignores the dig.

James carries on, clearly immune to Robbie’s grumpiness. “Fan fiction is often about characters who aren’t actually together in the original work. It’s not like there’s many mainstream films or books where two central male characters are together. Same for female characters.”

He’s got a point. “So really, they’re just smutty stories then?”

“No! Well, yes—many are, I’m sure, but . . . no—they’re not all just about the smut. I understand some of them are so well written that the sex just seems like a natural part of the characters’ lives. Even characters you don’t think are gay, or don’t think have a sex life.”

Something about this little lecture has Robbie’s detective’s instincts on red alert. “Give me an example—something I’ll have heard of.”

Spots of colour have appeared in James cheeks. “Well, I understand there’s a lot written about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson being together; particularly the BBC version of Sherlock. And Kirk and Spock too; you know—from Star Trek.”

It’s the repeat of _I understand_ that gives him away. It’s a classic Hathaway tactic; trying to appear less knowledgeable, more distanced from something, than he actually is. _So_ ; clearly James has read some. Robbie’s intrigued by the thought of James reading erotic stories; sitting at home in the evenings, perhaps with a glass of scotch to hand, reading stories about Kirk and Spock having it off. _Bloody hell_. Then something else occurs to Robbie—an even more interesting possibility. Maybe James has actually _written_ fan fiction?! Now that _is_ an interesting thought. God knows the bloke’s good with words. And surely he’s read enough classic fiction to have picked up a few ideas about how to put together a story? Well, this needs investigating. “I see. And it’s really worth reading, this stuff? Surely the fan versions can’t be anything like as good as the original material?”

James is fiddling with a paperclip. “Actually, you’d be surprised. Some of it’s dross, of course. The literary equivalent of the worst kind of tacky porn film. But some of it; well, some of it’s very well done. Beautiful, even. Apparently.” The paperclip snaps between his fingers and James drops the remains onto his desk, then gets up and heads towards the door, seemingly determined to put an end to the conversation.

Robbie glances up at him, and then back to his computer screen. “I’d like to read some.”

“What?!” James half turns back towards him. He looks appalled.

“Don’t look at me like that! It sounds interesting. I like the idea of people not being precious about a book or a film or something. Feeling like they can have a go themselves, if they want to. Very democratic.”

James is still half turned towards the door, but the ear that Robbie can see is blushed crimson. “Well, I’m sure if you Google ‘fan fiction,’ you’ll get several million options.”

 _Nice try, James._ “Nah. I haven’t got time to sort through all the rubbish to find the good stuff. I think I’m going to need you to make some recommendations. Send me some links . . . is that what I mean—links?”

James sighs, deeply. “Yes; links. Fine—I’ll see what I can find. I’ll try to avoid the more explicit works.”

 _Not likely._ “I’m a middle-aged man, James, not some blushing virgin. I worked Vice, man! I think I can manage to read a bit of smut without fainting. Might even enjoy it.” He’s really enjoying himself, now, that’s for sure; watching the look of horror develop on his sergeant’s face. 

James swallows and Robbie can see his Adam’s apple bob. “Yes, but . . . gay smut, sir?”

Robbie flashes him his best _I’m a sophisticated man of the world look_. “If that’s what the best stuff is, that’s what I want to read. I have it on good authority that when the writing’s really good, the sex is just a natural part of the story—doesn’t matter if it’s gay or straight. So you just give me some well-written stories to read, and we’ll see if your theory’s right.”

And with that, he waves a dismissive hand in the air, and James takes the opportunity to hotfoot it out the office. No doubt he’s off to have a fraught smoke round the back of the nick . . . and to try and work out what on earth he’s going to do.

Robbie leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly to himself. This afternoon—which he’d thought was going to consist of nothing more than cold cases and horrible coffee—has turned out to be the most interesting he’s had in a long while. James never ceases to surprise him . . . and he likes that very much. He’s got a good feeling about this . . .


	2. Friday evening, two weeks later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started life as a rather lighthearted, single chaptered fic. But, I got very interested in what might happen next, and the result is two additional, much longer, chapters. There's a change of tone, with this chapter in particular involving some angst (amongst other things!) But I assure you, all will be well in the final chapter! The fic has also become much more explicit.
> 
> This chapter includes descriptions of fic from other fandoms (fandoms listed in the note at the end, in case you want to see what you're getting yourself into before you start reading).
> 
> The story is set in December 2012, so is after Series 6 of Lewis but before Series 7. It contains spoilers for Series 2 of BBC Sherlock. 
> 
> Warning for mentions of canon-consistent grief.
> 
> Also, warning for a very brief mention of suicidal thoughts in a character in one of the other fandom fan fics.

It’s 9.30 on Friday night. Robbie and James had had a couple of pints together after work, and James had suggested staying on at the pub to get some food. But it was noisy and hot there, full of students and dons and tourists, all hell-bent on starting the weekend with alcohol poisoning, by the looks of things. Robbie had felt tired and a bit out of sorts; verging on irritable. Nothing particularly wrong; just end-of-a-busy-week-itis. So he’d said no thanks to James and had headed home to rummage in his fridge for some food, and to sit in the quiet of his sitting room. Which has helped to some extent, but he’s still feeling a bit restless, tired though he is. His mobile chirrups: a text message arriving. A bit late for Lyn, unless she’s just come off a shift. He reaches over to the coffee table and picks it up. It’s from James:

_Check your gmail account_

That’s it. No ‘sir;’ no explanation. Just, Check your gmail account. Odd. What’s wrong with his work account? On the rare occasions James emails him outside of work, he uses that one; they’re allowed to for personal things, as long as the use is deemed appropriate. The last time James had sent him something non-work related, it had been a link to some rugby video clips; very decent of him, considering the bloke can’t stand the game. In fact the only reason James knows about Robbie’s gmail account at all is because James had set it up for him, when Lyn had wanted to email a load of photos of Val she’d scanned into her computer.

Robbie reaches under the coffee table for his laptop and wakes it up. Sure enough, there’s a new email waiting for him, from a gmail account he doesn’t think he’s seen before: jsh@gmail.com. That must be James, though Robbie doesn’t remember him having a middle name. Well, that puzzle will have to wait, while he works out what’s going on with all this personal email business. The email is short:

 

_Sir. Reading material, as per your instructions._

_James_

_Reading material?_ Below are links to three webpages, each web address beginning http://archiveofourown.org/works/ followed by a long string of numbers. It takes Robbie a few seconds to catch on, but then— _reading material_ . . . bloody hell! The fan fiction! It’s outrageous how energised he feels, all of a sudden; all lethargy gone. He clicks on the first link and a web page opens. It looks like there’s a load of information at the top of the page, then, as he scrolls down, the story itself appears. It’s tempting to just dive in, but he wants to get his bearings a bit, first. 

He skims through the information and the words Bletchley Circle leap out at him. Oh! Him and James watched that a while back. Both of them had thought it was very well done. Some lasses who’d worked at Bletchley Park in the war, solving a series of murders in London. Christ! Bletchley Circle: it’s all lasses! James had said fan fiction’s often sexually explicit . . . he hasn’t gone and sent him some kind of fictional lesbian sex orgy, has he? Not that that’d necessarily be a bad thing, but, _Christ._ He scans the information for clues, and sees that it has a rating of “teen and up audiences.” He doesn’t have any idea what the other rating options are, but surely it can’t be that full-on if the writer thinks it’s okay for teens? And then he sees that there’s a note saying the rating is for ‘case-related violence,’ not sexual content. There’s a twinge of disappointment as he realises that someone has written a case for the characters to solve, not an orgy. He gives himself a good talking to: he’s a bloody fool: did he really think James would send him something like that? 

Anyway, what he should be doing is trying to work out who the author is. The writer seems to be calling themselves FrancisDeS. If it _is_ James, Robbie’s got no idea what his choice of pseudonym means; though of course, it would be just like his sergeant to come up with some obscure name that no one but him would understand. The only ‘de S’ he can think of is the Marquis de Sade, but a quick check on Wikipedia tells him that de Sade was not called Francis. He tells himself he’s relieved.

The story is called “The Fields of Nysa,” and, once again, he consults Wikipedia, which reveals that the fields of Nysa were where Hades abducted Persephone. Greek myth is very James of course; but Robbie doubts he’s the only person writing fan fiction with a working knowledge of the Greek gods. 

He turns his attention to the story itself, and almost immediately all sense of disappointment is banished, because it’s totally gripping. The women—Susan, Millie, and the rest, are thrown into trying to solve a kidnapping right from the off, and the case and their conversations—even their thoughts and feelings—are written so cleverly that Robbie feels like he’s one of the gang, frantically trying to make sense of the mess of clues and misinformation, before it’s too late. There’s a point where Lucy, the youngest woman in the group, who has an extraordinary memory but is emotionally all over the place because of her bastard of a husband, is trying to remember some numbers she saw on a document months ago—numbers that it’s now become obvious are vital to saving the girl who’s been kidnapped. Robbie finds himself actually muttering “Come on; come on!” under his breath at her. Finally, when his stomach is aching from the tension, they work it out, there’s a race across London by cab, and the kidnapped girl is saved. Bloody hell! Amazing!

He gets up to stretch his legs, fetches a drink from the kitchen, and settles himself back down on the sofa. It’s not just that it was exciting, and that the case worked perfectly. It’s not even just that all the details of the early ‘50s—the food and the clothes and the frustration of the women for not being taken seriously by the men around them—are captured so well. It’s the way the characters themselves are written. He could see them all as clearly as if he was watching them on the telly. And it’s even more than that. The writer has somehow managed to convey a kind of unspoken, aching _something_ between Millie and Susan; a kind of repressed longing. Robbie’s got no idea how the writer’s managed it: he doesn’t think it’s ever explicitly alluded to; and yet, he’s left at the end somehow knowing that there’s complicated feeling between them—never voiced and certainly never acted on—that makes him feel a twinge of pain for them, even in the midst of the relief of a life being saved. 

He doesn’t know who wrote The Fields of Nysa; it could be some lass from Timbuktu, for all he knows. Other than the title, there are no obvious signs that it’s James; no showy use of Shakespearian quotes or multi-syllable words. But then that wouldn’t suit the story, would it? All he can say for sure is that if he had to come up with a name of someone who could perfectly describe a serious crime and show it being solved realistically, _and_ imbue the whole thing—even the happy rescue of the victim—with a kind of brittle melancholy; well; James’ name would be at the top of a very short list. 

Robbie sighs and clicks on the link to the second story. It’s written by EternalRedshirt and it’s called “A logical use of the time.” It’s rated “explicit,” it involves Spock/Nyota Uhura, and a section titled ‘additional tags’ informs him that it’s “het,” (presumably short for heterosexual?), and involves “athletic space sex.” _Bloody hell!_ It’s pathetic how eager he is to read it. 

Well, it doesn’t disappoint. It’s hilariously funny—and as sexy as hell. It revolves around first officer Commander Spock and communications officer Lieutenant Uhura setting off on a week-long diplomatic away mission together, and getting stranded in space when their shuttlecraft—the Galileo—develops a propulsion problem they can’t fix. They manage to make contact with the Enterprise and Kirk assures them they’ll be rescued within 36 hours. In the meantime, they’re not in immediate danger and neither of them is injured; but they’re becalmed in the dullest patch of space imaginable, with absolutely nothing to do. _Hmm._ Robbie’s got a feeling he knows exactly what they’ll end up doing.

The accident with the debris has knocked out the gravity system in the shuttle, and Spock is going on in great and tedious detail about how inconvenient that is, when Uhura raises an elegant eyebrow and suggests that she can think of several activities they could engage in, to investigate the impact of a gravity-free environment on Human-Vulcan interactions. Spock’s intrigued, and invites her to elaborate. She in turn opts for more of a show than tell approach—and away they go. It turns out that Spock favours a thorough, details-focussed, and surprisingly creative approach to love-making, that has Uhura orgasming in most parts of the shuttlecraft. As befits a communications officer of her calibre, she swears in a range of alien languages as she comes. 

Although it’s funny and silly, the story is also very sexy. The final scene has the two of them floating slowly through the shuttlecraft, Uhura’s legs wrapped round Spock’s neck as he uses his mouth on her. It’s so well written that Robbie has a very clear image of the scene, and by the time he gets to the end of the story, he’s feeling overheated—and not a little turned-on. He takes his jumper off and undoes a couple of shirt buttons. Just for a moment he’s tempted to do something about his state of arousal; but in the end, his impatience to read the final story outweighs his desire for anything else. So, a cold glass of water later, he’s ready for whatever James has in store for him.

The story’s by _TheLastSolitaryBee_ , and it’s a BBC Sherlock story called “The Long and Winding Road.” It’s eight chapters long, and it takes place after The Reichenbach Fall, the last episode of the second Sherlock series, which had aired at the beginning of the year. Robbie and James had watched the episode together, both gripped and stunned by it. Of course, Robbie had been deeply affected; seeing John watch his best friend die; and somehow even more evocative for Robbie—seeing John visit Sherlock’s grave; talking to Sherlock at his grave. How could he not be affected? 

James had obviously been getting increasingly worried as the episode unfolded; as it became more and more obvious how things were going to end. He’d actually asked Robbie if he wanted to switch it off. But as Robbie had explained at the time, in a funny sort of way, watching it helped. It helped to see someone else’s grief—helped him not to feel so alone or weak, for having been just as much a mess after Val had died; for taking so long to grieve her. 

In fact they’ve watched the episode a couple of times since—at Robbie’s request.

Each chapter of the story takes its title from the lyrics of the Beatle’s song:

1\. The wild and windy night  
2\. Washed away  
3\. Pool of tears  
4\. Many times I've been alone  
5\. Many times I've cried  
6\. Why leave me standing here?  
7\. Let me know the way  
8\. Lead me to your door

The first chapter retells Sherlock’s fall—no—his jump, from John’s point of view: John’s horror as he realizes what his friend is about to do; his fury at his own inability to do anything other than watch and beg Sherlock not to do it. But John knows, with the certainty of a soldier trained to predict outcomes in high-risk situations; with the certainty of a doctor practiced at predicting the success or otherwise of his interventions, that nothing he can do will stop Sherlock from launching himself off that roof. And the jump is awful. Sherlock’s coat flaps about him like the useless wings of some dark, broken bird, plummeting from the nest to the pavement below. The reader is deeply in John’s point of view the whole time; second by sickening second. Robbie is shaking by the end of it. 

The second chapter immediately makes it clear that Sherlock has not perished, though the author doesn’t elaborate on how that can be so, beyond drawing attention to Dr Molly Hooper; a woman far more resourceful and courageous than she might have first appeared. The chapter underlines how important it is that John—grieving to the point of being half-dead himself—cannot know that Sherlock is alive, until Sherlock has dealt with every remaining aspect of Moriarty’s vast and hidden empire. Heartbreakingly, the writer also makes it absolutely clear that Sherlock knows what he’s done to John; understands that he has in all likelihood wrecked him, in order to keep him alive. More than that, the reader comes to understand that Sherlock knew this would be the case, all along; even before he jumped. The author lingers over how immeasurably important Sherlock is to John—as John is to Sherlock—emphasising that Sherlock recognises all this, and even so, knows he’ll have to rip them apart in the most brutal way, anyway.

From this point on, the chapters alternate between John and Sherlock, a thousand miles apart and each grieving in their own ways—for what they’ve lost, for what they’ve never had; for what they think they can now never have. The reader sees John, alone in a shabby, colourless flat; a flat that he moved to because he couldn’t bear to stay at Baker Street; a flat that is nothing more to him than a place to lie awake and think dark thoughts. He’s drinking too much, and he knows he is—and he doesn’t care. He’s empty; adrift; virtually catatonic at times; a sleepwalker trudging through the nightmare of his own life. Sherlock, meanwhile, is roaming across Europe, trying to dismantle Moriarty’s web of blackmailers and murderers. He’s completely alone, constantly in danger, living rough a lot of the time, and moving from one brutal situation to the next; traumatized and lethal.

Robbie is also traumatized. He’s started to cry, silently, and the shaking hasn’t stopped. But he can’t stop reading—he mustn’t. There has to be some sort of redemption; John and Sherlock _have_ to find peace; they have to find each other again at the end. Surely James wouldn’t have sent him this story, this utterly compelling portrayal of loss and grief, without there being happiness at the end, or at least a resolution of some kind? 

The seventh chapter sees Sherlock hiding out in a derelict barn in a remote backwater of Belarus. It’s late January, the ground is frozen solid, and Sherlock’s concerned that there’s a real chance he’ll develop hypothermia before he can do what he needs to do here. His teeth are chattering, and all he can think of is John; of how warm he would feel if John were here with him. It’s obvious that John was the only true home Sherlock had ever known. It’s equally obvious that Sherlock had singlehandedly given John a reason to live after he was invalided out of the army. John now believes that Sherlock is dead, and is drifting towards the conclusion that his own life, without Sherlock, is meaningless. And Sherlock, fractured and half-mad from the violence and isolation, believes that if he ever does complete his work and is able to return to London, John will hate him for what he has done and who he has become. The writer lovingly, sadistically, holds them here in this darkness for what feels like eternity, examining their mutual despair with a detailed, tender precision—and Robbie is trapped here with them. He’s pulled a blanket round him but he still feels frozen; as cold as a Belarus winter.

But then finally, finally, he gets to the last chapter. It opens with Sherlock lying face down in a large quantity of blood, in a bare, snow-covered field. For a shocking moment Robbie thinks he’s dead, but then Sherlock groans and rolls over onto his back, clutching his shoulder: he’s wounded but still alive. The view pans out, revealing that the blood, in fact, is mostly not Sherlock’s. There are three dead bodies—two men and a woman—lying around him: the very last of Moriarty’s people. Sherlock may be injured and bleeding—but Moriarty is finally, completely, dead. Robbie follows Sherlock as he drags himself to his feet and makes his way, slow step by slow step, along the edge of the frozen field, towards a road. He flags down a passing car, is helped into the passenger seat, and then loses consciousness. Robbie is suddenly leaning forward over the laptop on his knee; urging Sherlock to hold on, to live. 

And he does live. He spends a week in hospital in Belarus, and then picks his way across Europe, by train mostly, edging his way towards London—towards John. He could have flown, of course. He could have contacted his brother, Mycroft, who would have sent a private jet and had him back on familiar ground the same day. But now that Sherlock knows, at last, that he will see John again, he’s terrified. He uses the slow crawl from country to country, through snowy forests and bustling towns, to physically heal some more—and to gather up his courage. Facing almost guaranteed death at the hands of Moriarty’s henchmen is one thing; facing John after two years of being dead, is another.

Robbie’s heart has lurched into action, hope and fear coursing through his veins. He knows there’s still a chance that the author, who is clearly intimately familiar with loss and loneliness and suffering, might still abandon John and Sherlock—and Robbie—at the end. Is James the author? Robbie is increasingly sure he is. And if James is the author, will he, in the final moments, offer John and Sherlock a second chance; or will he bring them together, only to finally break them apart, irreparably? Will James give them redemption, or an eternity in hell? 

Within an hour of arriving at St Pancras station, Sherlock has found out where John’s working as a GP. He phones the surgery to make sure John’s on duty and makes his way there immediately. He arrives just gone three in the afternoon.

He can’t go in. He just can’t make himself. So he settles in to wait, leaning against a wall in a doorway opposite the surgery; making himself invisible. John eventually appears at 6.40pm, and Sherlock gasps at the sight of him. John is grey and limping and somehow, even from across the street, Sherlock can see how barely there he is. But it _is_ John. His friend, John. It takes all of Sherlock’s remaining strength to stop himself just sprinting across the busy street and hurling himself at John. Instead, he follows him from a distance, his own chest tight and hurting at the sight of John’s hunched shoulders; his awful, shapeless mac. Twenty minutes later, they’re in a street of unremarkable Victorian terraced houses. John lets himself into a particularly scruffy-looking one that, going on the intercom system by the side of the door, has been turned into flats. Sherlock gives him ten minutes, then, hand shaking, pushes the buzzer labelled J Watson, in John’s small, neat hand.

“Yes?”

“John.”

Silence.

“John. It’s Sherlock.”

More silence, then John’s voice, quiet, but furious. “No, you sick fuck; Sherlock’s dead.”

_“John.”_

“Who the fuck is this?”

 _“John. Please.”_

“I’m going to kill you. Whoever you are, I’m going to fucking kill you.” And there’s the echoey buzzing of the intercom and the thunder of footsteps down a flight of stairs and the door is flung open and John is there, bare-foot and panting and murderous . . . and Sherlock’s chest is bound with bands of iron so tight, he can barely speak.

“John, I . . .”

John holds up his hands, palms towards Sherlock, warding off a ghost. “No. You are not . . . you’re dead.”

“I know it’s a shock, John. I’m sorry. If there had been another way . . .”

John is staring at him; wild; unhinged. He shakes his head, his face contorted with pain. He goes to shut the door.

 _“John! Please!”_ And then Sherlock is breaking apart; great, racking sobs bursting out of him; tears pouring down his face. Everything he’s had to keep inside himself for two years, just to survive, is flooding out of him, engulfing him. 

_“Please, John.”_

And suddenly John is through the doorway and on him; hitting him and tearing at his coat and hair, and swearing incoherently: “You fucking bastard! You fucking, fucking . . . You were dead! . . . I hate you! I fucking . . .”

Sherlock manages to push him back into the hallway and kicks the door shut behind them. He’s crying, begging. _“Please; I’m sorry.”_ He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. He has no energy left; no fight. In any case, he won’t fight John. He’ll just let him do whatever he needs to do; given what he’s put John through, whatever John dishes out, it’ll be no worse than he deserves.

John slams him back against a wall in the dimly lit hallway, and Sherlock’s shoulder screams with pain. No matter. Sherlock braces himself for the punch he expects will follow. But John doesn’t punch him; he flings himself at Sherlock and pushes against him, harder and harder, as if he’s trying to force the two of them to merge; as if he’s trying to climb inside Sherlock. John’s still shouting, and he’s still clumsily tearing at Sherlock’s clothes, and suddenly Sherlock realises that John’s trying to get through his shirt—to bare skin. Sherlock pulls his shirt apart, ripping buttons off as he does it. John lets out a pained cry as he buries his face in Sherlock’s chest, rubbing his nose and mouth hard against Sherlock’s sternum, like a wild animal trying to get the scent of its mother, or its mate. “Sherlock!” He sounds frantic.

Sherlock has no clever things to say; his mind is chaotic; roaring; tears are still pouring out of him. All he can do is hold onto John. 

“How could you do that to me?!” John’s voice has dropped to an angry growl; Sherlock can feel John’s words on his skin; the warmth of his breath.

“I’m so, so sorry, John. I hated leaving you.” He rubs John’s back, through his jumper. 

“I wanted to kill myself, Sherlock. You have no fucking idea. I made a plan.” 

Sherlock can’t bear it. He just can’t bear it. His heart feels like it’s being stabbed on every beat. _John. John. John._

But then John shoves his face right up into Sherlock’s; glaring at him; searching his face for something; and then John’s kissing him—so hard that Sherlock actually grunts with pain as his lips get mashed against his teeth. But John just keeps going; biting, sucking; consuming him like a man starved of sustenance. John pushes one hand into Sherlock’s hair, holding on tightly, tugging it painfully. He shoves his other hand between them, pawing at the front of Sherlock’s jeans. And God help him, Sherlock responds. John is roughly squeezing Sherlock’s groin, and, despite how much his body hurts, and how exhausted he is, Sherlock’s getting hard. He reaches down and fumbles with John’s zip, gets his hand inside his trousers and around his cock. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth. 

And so, pressed against a wall in the bare hallway of John’s flats, they pull each other off. There’s nothing gentle about it; there’s just hurt and need and fury. John’s the first to come, spilling over Sherlock’s hand, crying out like a wounded animal. Then he grips Sherlock so hard that Sherlock’s eyes roll back in their sockets, and two or three tugs later, it’s all over. They cling to each other in the gloom, holding each other up.

“Don’t you ever fucking leave me again, Sherlock! I swear to God, I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself.”

Sherlock’s in so much pain—his lip’s bleeding, his head’s pounding; he thinks the stiches in his shoulder have burst—but he has John in his arms, and absolutely nothing else matters. He leans down, and presses his face against John’s. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

_____________________

For long moments Robbie sits in stunned silence—and then the first sob erupts out of him; then another. It’s like his chest is convulsing, forcing the last, poisonous dregs of grief out of him in sharp, violent bursts. He’s so wound up and overwrought, he can hardly breathe. He’s desperate for release. Before he can even register what he’s doing, he’s undoing his jeans and pushing them, and his boxers, down to his knees. He takes his cock, already half-hard, in hand, and strokes himself firmly; images spinning through his mind: Sherlock, John, Val, James. It doesn’t take more than a dozen strokes and he’s there; sobbing and coming and crying out: a hot stream of semen pulsing over his hand and onto his belly. When it’s all over, he sits with his eyes closed, trying to get his breath back. He feels like he’s been hit with a sledgehammer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you've scrolled down to see which fandoms' fan fics are featured in this chapter, they are:
> 
> The Bletchley Circle, Original Series Star Trek, and BBC Sherlock.
> 
> Re the fan fic author names used in the chapter: 
> 
> FrancisDeS: Francis de Sales is the patron saint of writers.
> 
> EternalRedshirt: this is a nod to the 'redshirts' - expendable characters in Star Trek (often wearing red uniform shirts) who appear in just one episode and die in battles, explosions, or of some hideous alien disease.
> 
> TheLastSolitaryBee: This is a nod to ACD's Sherlock's admiration for bees.


	3. Saturday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lovelies: finally, the final chapter.
> 
> I should warn you that this chapter is sexually explicit - just in case that isn't your kind of thing.

The first time Robbie wakes, it’s just gone four and he feels like shit. He’s curled up on his side, on the sofa; his back hurts like hell, and he’s dying for a pee. As he sits up, his head and sinuses start pounding. _Bloody wonderful._ Must be the crying. And as if all that wasn't enough, his groin and boxers are uncomfortably damp. _Christ._ What a bloody mess. He makes his way to the loo in the dark, has a pee, washes his hands and face, and brushes his teeth. He feels almost jet-lagged with exhaustion as he gets undressed and crawls under the duvet. 

When he wakes again, sunlight is making his yellow bedroom curtains glow. It’s after nine—the latest he’s slept for years. He sits up gingerly, expecting to feel rough, but in fact, he’s okay: back’s fine; head’s fine. He feels a bit blank; a bit empty—not surprising, really, given all the crying—and the _other business_. But actually, even the sense of emptiness is okay. It’s like the calm after the storm. He leans back against the headboard. Christ! That a story, just a daft story about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, could affect him so much! Incredible. But it’s not just a daft story, is it? It’s a perfectly written, utterly realistic account of loss and need and longing so extreme, so agonising, that it almost kills Sherlock and John. And only when all hope has died, when all possibility of reconciliation and redemption is apparently beyond reach; only then does the author take mercy on Sherlock and John—and the reader—and give them a chance. And all of this is written—of this he’s absolutely convinced—by James; his loyal, complicated sergeant, his friend, his Watson, in a manner of speaking. Though, the reality is that James has far more of the dazzling brilliance of Sherlock; Robbie, much more of the solid presence of Watson. Whatever. What matters is that James wrote this, that James has all this pain and longing and terrible beauty inside him; hidden away under layers of intellect and sarcasm. 

Robbie reaches down to his trousers, which are at the bottom of the pile of clothes on the floor. He retrieves his mobile from his trouser pocket and dials. James answers on the second ring. “Sir? Everything all right?” He sounds strained. Not surprising, given the circumstances.

“Everything’s fine.”

James doesn’t speak for a second or two, but then he sighs. “Please tell me there isn’t a body.”

“Relax, James. No one’s died; everything’s ok.”

“Ok.” He still sounds uncertain. It’d be just like James—bored and a couple of whiskies in on a Friday night—to send him the links to the stories, only to anxiously repent his actions, come the sober light of day. 

_Right_. “You got plans this evening?”

“Oh.” James sounds surprised. Daft sod. What did he think was going to happen? That Robbie would be so shocked or offended that he wouldn’t want to spend time with him any more? 

“James?”

“No real plans, sir. I thought I might make a start on Elementary; you know, the American Sherlock Holmes thing. I’ve got the DVDs of the first series.”

“Well, you could do that at my place, accompanied by beef in Guinness.”

There’s a moment’s silence, and Robbie wonders if James is going to turn him down. He’s just considering being a bit more insistent, when it becomes clear that he’s misinterpreted the silence; his bloody sergeant was just leaving a dramatic pause before thoroughly taking the piss out of him.

“Do I really want to risk your cooking, sir? Though thinking about it, if the first episode of Elementary is a poisoning case, I suppose that might be rather fitting.”

 _The cheeky bastard!_ “Oi! There’s nothing wrong with my cooking! Anyway, our Lyn’s been giving me tips for this recipe. Says it’s fool-proof.”

“I’m saying nothing, sir.”

“Yeah, but I can hear what you’re thinking from here.” 

“I’ll endeavour to think more quietly.” 

“You do that. Seven o’clock then?”

“Of course.”

__________________________________________________

**That evening**

James arrives with the DVDs, and a couple of bottles of really good porter that’ll set them up nicely for the stew. Robbie turns the oven off—the stew’s cooked and it’ll stay warm while they have a drink. In fact it was ready an hour ago, because he’s been a bit restless all day and, in the end, getting on with the cooking was the best way to keep himself occupied. He hopes the beer will relax them both, because James looks pretty nervous too, despite his obvious attempts to appear his usual, composed self. 

They end up standing in Robbie’s kitchen, nattering about the promotion Lyn’s just got, and although James makes all the right noises, it’s obvious to Robbie that his attention’s elsewhere. Looks like there’s nothing for it—he’s just going to have to say something. 

“I did a bit of reading last night.” The kitchen instantly feels hot and airless. 

“Did you?” James looks slightly queasy. 

“Yeah. Three stories.”

“Should I be apologising profusely for offence caused, and agreeing with you that the stories were execrable nonsense?” 

“You can save your apologies, Sergeant; the stories were good. Can’t believe how good, if I’m honest. Wasn’t expecting them to be up to much, really, but I was very impressed.”

He can practically see the relief wash through James, and he’s treated to a classic Hathaway grin: a bit smug, and blink and you’d miss it—but a treat, all the same.

“Oh ye of little faith! I did say there were good fan works out there.”

“I know. I know. I just couldn’t imagine how it would all work. They really were all brilliant, in their own ways. Very well written. The characters were completely recognisable, in all of them. And the plots . . .” Robbie needs to stop waffling; any time now would be good. He takes a mouthful of beer.

James eyes him; amused. “So, we’re agreed on their _literary_ merits.” 

Robbie can feel the heat rush to his face. “Aye. I suppose we are.”

“Which did you like the most?” 

God, this feels exposing; but he’s not going to lie, especially as he’s convinced that James wrote the one that utterly transfixed him. “Well, I liked them all, but the Sherlock one; that was something else.”

James looks . . . something: Surprised? Relieved? “Oh. I wasn’t at all sure about sending you the link to that one.”

“Because of the sex? Two blokes?”

“Because of the grief.”

“Well. It was . . .” What can he say? “It was ok; I’m ok. I told you when we watched it on the telly; it helps seeing someone else in the same state. Makes me feel like I wasn’t the only one. Like someone else understands a bit about what it was like. I know it’s daft—it’s only a programme; well, a story now.”

James nods; his eyes soft. “I remember you saying that.”

So that’s why James sent it to him? Thought it might help? And if James did actually write it, what does that mean? He doesn’t have time to think through the implications before James speaks again. 

“I’m glad it was ok.” James is looking at him intently. “So; two blokes? The sex? Is that the aspect of the story I should have been worried about?”

Robbie really does want to be honest with James about all this; but it’s not easy. He scratches the back of his neck. “Nah. That was . . . ok too.”

“Really? I’d have thought the Star Trek one would have been more up your street.”

“Yes, well . . . I’ve always admired Uhura.”

James smirks at him. “ _Admired?_ ” 

_Git_. “What?! She was a highly competent Starfleet officer! She got them out of more than a few scrapes—and she didn’t take any nonsense.”

James looks at him appraisingly. “I see.” 

“Give over! You know what I mean.”

“But despite your deeply held regard for Lieutenant Uhura, and the fact that A Logical Use of the Time involves extended bouts of athletic space rumpy-pumpy, you still prefer The Long and Winding Road?” 

“Aye.”

“Might I enquire as to why?”

Robbie smiles ruefully. “Well, to quote one of the comments I read—it hit me right in the feels.” 

James snorts. He looks at Robbie with such affection that it makes Robbie’s heart flip. 

“You never stop surprising me, sir.”

“The sentiment’s completely mutual, James.” 

They don’t seem to be able to look away from each other. Well then. “James? Did you write The Long and Winding Road?”

Spots of colour instantly appear in James cheeks, but he shakes his head. “Ah, no. That’ll be Lennon and McCartney, you’re thinking of. They were in a well known pop music combo—a little before my—” 

_“James.”_

James carefully stands his beer bottle on the worktop. “Yes. I did.”

“And the Bletchley Circle one; the Fields of Nysa? I worked out the pseud thing on AO3—two author names, but the same account.”

“Well done you, sir.” James frowns and his gaze slides away. 

“There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. I told you—they’re both brilliant.”

“Well then, I might as well ‘fess up.” He meets Robbie’s gaze again. “I wrote all three.”

“Never! You wrote A Logical Use of the Time too?” 

James nods, his lips pressed together. It’s hard to tell if he’s trying to supress a smile or a grimace. 

Something occurs to Robbie. “But that was only posted a few days ago—I saw the date on AO3.”

“I wrote it last weekend.”

“You wrote it specially?”

James’ cheeks and ears are now flushed a deep pink. “I wanted to write something you might enjoy.” 

Jesus. James wrote porn—funny, filthy porn—just for him. Robbie tries to stay focussed. “And you thought—what was it?—extended bouts of athletic space rumpy-pumpy, was my kind of thing?” 

“Extended bouts of athletic _heterosexual_ space rumpy-pumpy, to be precise.” 

_Ah_. “I see.” 

James has his head tilted to one side, looking puzzled. “But you still preferred The Long and Winding Road, despite the desperate, gay sex?” 

Robbie leans against the kitchen counter for support. “Well. I wouldn’t say _despite_ , exactly.” It’s his turn to blush. 

James’ eyes widen. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He’s staring at Robbie.

 _Christ_. What’s Robbie meant to say now? He’s no good at this kind of thing. “It felt . . . real. Like finally they were really alive, after being dead, or as good as.”

James takes a step towards him. “And that was good? Even though the sex was so fraught?”

They’re about a foot apart; staring at each other now. Robbie feels like he’s on fire. “Yeah, well. It’s not always some romantic fairy tale, is it? Sex? Love?” 

James laughs—a short, humourless bark. “No; it’s not always a fairy tale.” He’s obviously trying to sound amused, but Robbie can hear the ache in James’ voice, and he _hates_ hearing it. He’s suddenly clear, that more than anything else in life, what he cares about is for James to not suffer; for James to be happy. That’s it. _That’s_ what matters. He reaches out a hand and cautiously places it on James’ shoulder. He feels the muscles tighten beneath his fingers, but James doesn’t pull away. James frowns and his eyes close and he drops his head so that his chin is practically resting on his chest—but he doesn’t pull away.

So Robbie pats him and strokes him; making small, comforting circles round James’ shoulder with his fingers; feeling the softness of James’ t-shirt, the warmth of James’ skin through the thin cotton. Then the world shrinks until the only things that exist are the sensations in the tips of Robbie’s fingers as he slides them over the edge of the t-shirt and onto bare skin. James gasps like he’s in pain, but he presses himself into Robbie’s hand. So Robbie curls his hand round the side of James’ neck and squeezes the muscles and tendons, and James’s mouth opens a little and he gasps again, more loudly this time—but it looks and sounds less like pain.

Robbie watches James’ face as he massages and kneads his neck and shoulder, mesmerised by how beautiful his sergeant looks; shocked at how erotic he’s finding the sight of his own hand on James’ pale skin. He slides his thumb up towards James’ chin, and rubs it firmly over the stubble there, and this time James isn’t the only one who gasps at the sensation. And suddenly there isn’t anywhere near enough physical contact between them. Robbie leans back against the kitchen counter and pulls James into his arms. James, still with his eyes tightly shut, ducks his head down and finds Robbie’s mouth. 

James presses him against the kitchen counter. He takes Robbie’s head between his hands and kisses him urgently; messily; licking into Robbie’s mouth again and again. And Robbie responds; pulling James tightly against him, fitting them together; swearing softly when he feels James’ cock—already hard—pressing against his belly. Robbie pushes against it, and is electrified by the raw, needy noises that James makes in response. Robbie can feel the dizzying pulsing of blood in his own cock; can feel himself filling and lengthening, heartbeat, by pounding heartbeat. He can feel the urge to push, to fill, to rut, building in him. 

He’s got his hands inside James’ t-shirt, and he’s stroking down James’ back, exploring the back of his ribs and his spine; following the vertebrae down and down, to where bare skin disappears into the top of James’ jeans. Robbie pushes both hands inside the waistband of the jeans. He can feel the fleshy top of James’ buttocks, and without hesitation he gets his hands round as much flesh as he can, and squeezes, hard, making James moan and rub his erection against Robbie’s. _Christ_. James feels fantastic. His arse— _Christ_. Robbie’s never done anything like this with a bloke, has never wanted to do anything like this with a bloke; but all he wants right now is to get his hands further inside James’ jeans; get his hands full of James’ backside and squeeze and knead and pull James hard against him, and rub and . . . 

But then James just seems to slip down through Robbie’s embrace and drops to his knees in front of him. In one fluid motion, James pulls his t-shirt off over his head, drops it on the floor, and then leans forward and presses his face against the front of Robbie’s jeans; against his groin; rubbing Robbie’s cock with his lips, through the fabric. _Fuck_. It feels incredible. 

“James, God! You don't have to . . .” He tries to pull James back up.

“Please! _Robbie_. Let me.” 

Robbie looks down, dazed by the sight of James—bare from the waist up—kneeling before him. James gazes back up at him, his eyes dark; pleading. “Please. I need this so much. I _want_ this.” And he nuzzles Robbie’s erection, and mouths at it, without looking away from Robbie for a moment. Well, God knows, Robbie wants it too. He strokes the soft, short hair at the back of James’ head, and cradles James against his groin. Then he unzips himself and, with one hand gently holding James’ head in place, he feeds him his now full, heavy cock. 

He watches the head of it slip between James’ lips and _oh fuck_ , the heat, and the soft, wet sucking pull, as it disappears into James’ mouth. And the _sight_ of it, as he looks down; James’ mouth stretched and full, while Robbie’s own hand holds the shaft steady. But then he can’t watch anymore because James starts to do something with his tongue that makes Robbie’s eyes close tight. 

“Fuck! James! _Jesus_.” 

It feels like James is swirling and fluttering his tongue round the head of his cock. God. _God!_ It’s incredible. He can feel James delicately flick his tongue back and forth across the edge of the glans. Jesus Christ—it’s glorious. He’d happily stay like this for hours, holding James, and receiving this gorgeous, gentle stimulation. But he isn’t given the option, because in the next moment, James puts his hands on Robbie’s backside and pulls him in, and at the same time James sucks, hard, until almost the whole of Robbie’s shaft is sheathed in the warm, wet cavity of his mouth. And then James steers the length of Robbie’s erection steadily in and out of his mouth, as he sucks and sucks—and Robbie doesn’t stand a chance. Within half a minute, his balls are tight up against his body, and he can feel his orgasm surging up through him. He pulls out just in time, angling his cock down, so that when he comes, in long, powerful pulses, he covers James’ chest and throat, and James calls out: 

“Yes! God! Come _on_.” He sounds breathless; jubilant.

__________________________________________________

When Robbie is able to do more than just lean on James’ shoulder and pant, he opens his eyes and looks down. James is gazing up at him, looking awestruck. His chest is dripping with . . . Robbie can’t even say the word to himself. It’s _obscene_. James doesn’t seem to mind in the least, though; and Robbie can’t stop looking at it; looking at the milky wetness glistening on James’ pale chest. All he keeps thinking is: _I did that_. He reaches down and runs a finger through the sticky mess that’s dripping off one of James’ nipples. James audibly sucks in a breath, and the nipple hardens. It feels slippery and swollen between Robbie’s fingertips. He gently pulls it.

“Oh, _fuck_.” James’ head tilts back and his mouth opens as he gasps and swears. Robbie massages and tugs the nipple, and James kneels there, gazing up at him: their eyes locked. Robbie drops down to his knees and starts to pull James tight against him, but James resists. “You’re going to get messy.”

“I should bloody well hope so.” He flattens James’ body against his, chest to groin, immediately feeling the wetness seep through his shirt. That’s not all he can feel: James is very hard. Robbie shoves a hand between them and presses his palm against James’ erection, through his jeans.

“You want me to, James?”

“ _Yes!_ ” He sounds desperate.

Robbie gets James’ jeans undone and yanks them down—with his boxers—over his hips and thighs, and then takes hold of James’ erection and starts pumping it: he doesn’t stop to think about it; he doesn’t hesitate; he just reaches for James and sets about making him feel better. It’s awkward and uncomfortable with them both on their knees on the hard, tiled floor; and Robbie isn’t used to handling an erection from this angle—handling another man at all. But James is clinging onto him and he’s got his face pressed into the side of Robbie’s neck, and he’s panting and whispering _Robbie_ and _please_ and _yes_ —and it’s amazing.

“ _Robbie!_ ” Every muscle in James’ body feels rigid with tension, as he strains towards release.

“You’re almost there, James. Almost there now.”

“Don’t stop! _Please don’t stop_.” James can barely get the words out, he’s panting so hard.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to stop.” Robbie tightens his grip a little; speeds up the strokes.

“God! Fuck!” 

“For me, James. Come on. For me. I want to see you.”

And that’s it: it’s like he’s just launched James over the precipice. James’ whole body stiffens, and he cries out, and come splatters between them, covering Robbie’s fist and shirt, as he strokes James through his orgasm. 

James collapses against him, and Robbie just can’t manage to hold them both up any longer, so they do an awkward sort of slow motion collapse, sideways, and end up lying on the kitchen floor, tangled up together; with everything sticky and uncomfortable. 

Robbie lies sprawled on the tiles, with his trousers undone, waiting for James to get his breath back. He’s feeling a bit self-conscious, so God only knows how James must be feeling, lying there, pretty much naked, and covered in you-know-what. Eventually, James groans and rolls away from Robbie. He stretches out, full length, and rubs his face with his hands. God, he’s a lanky bugger! Beautiful, though. James still has his face turned away, and Robbie can see exactly how this is going to end up, if he’s not careful. He pats James’ shoulder.

“Hey, you. I’m over here.”

James turns to face him. His expression is one big anxious question: _Have I wrecked everything? Do you despise me? What the hell’s going to happen now?_

 _Ah, James_. Robbie smiles as reassuringly as he can. It’s not like he’s got it all worked out either, but he is pretty certain that both of them feeling clean and warm and preferably tucked up together in his bed, is going to make things a whole lot better. 

He gets to his feet, wipes his hands on his jeans and then reaches down to give James a hand up. “Up you get. You can’t stay on me kitchen floor forever. I think we both need a bit of a wash and a lie down somewhere more comfy.”

For a second, James doesn’t seem to be able to stop staring at the sticky patch on Robbie’s jeans, but then he shakes himself. He pulls his pants and jeans up, wincing at the state they—and he—are in. He retrieves his t-shirt and uses it to dab at his chest and stomach. “God, I’m a mess.” 

“Go on. You use the bathroom first, and then make yourself comfortable in my bed.”

James’ eyes widen. “Your bed?”

“If that’s ok? If you don’t want to . . .”

“No! I mean—yes. Your bed. Of course.”

“Right then. I’ll see you in there when I’ve had a wash too. Just leave your clothes on the bathroom floor; we’ll worry about them later.”

Robbie hangs about in the kitchen—clearing up a bit, and getting them glasses of water—until he hears James leave the bathroom and go across the hall to his bedroom. He’s not at all confident James will actually climb into bed and make himself comfortable. It’d be just like the awkward sod that he is, to be perched on the edge of the bed, waiting and getting chilly and wound up.

Robbie has a quick wash and brushes his teeth and then stands in front of the mirror. It’s not full length, but he can see enough. He grimaces at himself. _God_ , he’s getting old. It doesn’t help that James is not just years younger than him, but beautifully, elegantly younger than him. He sighs. He knows he’s not in bad shape for a man of his age, but . . . well, he’s not going to be walking into that bedroom stark naked, that’s for sure. Thank God his dressing gown’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He fishes a clean pair of boxers out of the airing cupboard, shrugs on the dressing gown, and then heads across the hall to his bedroom. It’s a very long time since he’s had anyone in his bed, if indeed James _is_ actually _in_ the bed. And it’s a _very_ long time since he’s felt this deep, unwavering attachment to someone; this certainty that his happiness depends on being close to another human being. Scary then, that there’s no guarantee at all that James feels the same way—gifts of porn, and frantic sex, notwithstanding. It’s fair to say Robbie’s a bit on the nervous side as he pushes the bedroom door open and goes in.

__________________________________________________

There’s not much light in the bedroom and it takes a few seconds for Robbie’s eyes to start to adjust. James has pulled the curtains almost completely closed, so that the room is illuminated by just a small pool of soft, yellowish light from the streetlamp outside. And James has got into bed. He’s lying on his side, with the duvet pulled up to his chin, on the far side of the bed. Thank God for that. The sight of James, tucked up in his bed, just makes Robbie feel warm and hopeful.

“Better, James?”

James gives him a little smile. “A lot, thank you.”

Robbie’s aware of James watching him intently as he takes the dressing gown off and gets into the bed; which makes him very grateful for the lack of light. He lies on his side, facing James, and pulls the duvet up over his shoulders. He wants to reach across to him and touch him and pull him into his arms for a cuddle, but he can’t tell if that’s what James wants—and he doesn’t think he can find the words to ask. He’s acutely aware of the space between them, and he doesn’t like it one bit, but he just can’t seem to do anything about it right now. Maybe if they natter about something else first, things might sort themselves out?

“Can I ask you something, about the Sherlock story?”

“Of course.”

“Did you write it for me, somehow, even though you thought you’d never show it to me?”

“It wasn’t quite as conscious as that. But it’s fair to say I’ve written a lot of stories dealing with grief and life after grief, over the last few years. I think they were all about you, or for you, really. I know that sounds odd. I honestly had no intentions of ever showing them to you. I think somehow, though, I was trying to help you with your grief. Not sure how I thought that was going to work. Stupid, really.”

“ _James_. You _were_ helping with my grief. Every day.” 

They gaze at each other. Robbie reaches out a hand, runs his fingers over James’ collarbone. This is strange—being in bed with a man; with James. But it’s okay. So much better than okay.

James takes hold of his hand, lifts it to his mouth, kisses the back of it gently. His expression is soft; caring; sad. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Just because we did what we did in the kitchen, I don’t want you to feel obliged. I know men generally aren’t your . . . tasse de thé.”

Ah. So that’s it. “Well, that goes for you too, James. You shouldn’t feel you have to carry on with this; with an old bugger like me, just because we got a bit carried away.”

James flashes him a sad little _you really have no idea, do you?_ smile. “Yeah; that was never going to be a problem.”

Christ. Robbie’s never known anyone else who can smile and it makes them look sadder. He rests his hand over James’ heart, and rubs gently back and forth with his knuckles. “I don’t know anything about _this_ , really, with a bloke”—he pats his hand against James’ bare chest. “But I know _you_. I feel at home with _you_.” 

James’ smile looks a little less heartrending, but he’s clearly not done with the doubts yet. “We don't need to do _this_. We could just be friends.”

“Is that what you want, James?”

James sighs. “No; but . . .”

Robbie doesn’t even let him finish. “Good. We seemed to do ok in the kitchen, didn’t we? Not a bad start?”

And finally, James smiles a proper smile, and Robbie’s heart swells at the sight of it. 

“Not a bad start at all.”

So at last, Robbie pulls James into his arms, and settles him with his head resting on Robbie’s shoulder. He strokes James’ hair, which is so short at the moment, it’s almost like fur. “I liked it when you called me Robbie.” 

James is idly playing with Robbie’s chest hair; running his fingers through it, gently tugging it. “I liked it when you came on my chest, _Robbie_.”

 _Bloody hell_. Is this what it’s going to be like? “Yes, well. I wasn’t sure what else . . .”

He can practically feel James smirk. “I can think of another option, if you’re ever in that position again. Which I hope you are, by the way . . . just want to make that clear.”

Robbie’s cheeks are blazing, which is ridiculous in a man of his age. He’s very glad James can’t see, though he suspects the clever sod knows exactly the effect the conversation’s having on him. Time to change the subject.

“I’m going to enjoy reading every one of the stories you’ve written.”

“Well, probably not every story.”

“What d’ya mean? I’ve really liked them all so far; hard to imagine you’ve written anything I won’t enjoy.”

“Thank you, but I more meant that you probably wouldn’t be reading absolutely everything I’ve written.”

“Why’s that?”

"Because I have another AO3 account . . . where I put everything I’ve written in Latin.”

“In Latin. You’re kidding me.” 

James laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re not kidding me.”

“I’m not. I was pretty obsessed with the Aeneid for a long time, so there’s a lot of works exploring that. The majority are in dactylic hexameter.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

James sounds amused. “I knew you'd understand. There’s some not very good poetry inspired by Catullus. And there’s some Roman soldier erotica.”

Robbie splutters. “Roman soldier erotica? In Latin? Now you really are kidding me.”

But apparently James isn't. “They’re stationed at Hadrian’s Wall. They’re cold and bored and lonely. I ask you, what else are they going to do through the long, northern winters?”

He's got a point. “I suppose they wore those little leather skirts?” 

“Pteruges?”

“Bless you!”

James giggles against him. “Funny! No. You’ll be disappointed to learn that soldiers posted to colder climes wore woollen trousers—braccae.” 

“Shame, that. I might still need you to translate some of the highlights for me, though.” 

There’s more giggling, which is not something he’s used to hearing from his sergeant—from _his James_ , but it’s lovely; something he wants to encourage. He kisses the top of James’ head. “I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve written _a lot_. 106 stories on your main account, plus the smutty Star Trek one, as EternalRedShirt. _And_ all that Roman smut. You seem to have written more Sherlock stories than anything else, though. Are they your favourite characters to write about?”

Robbie can feel the deep breath that James takes before he answers. “Apparently, the idea of two male detectives becoming romantically and sexually involved with each other has occupied me for some time.”

Robbie sighs. “I really have been oblivious, haven’t I?”

“Well, to be fair, I _was_ trying not to make it too obvious.”

“Yeah, well; you succeeded.” He pulls James in even closer to him. “A word to the wise, James. I’m a simple kind of bloke; I prefer it when you make things obvious.”

James snorts and pulls away a little, so he can prop himself up on one elbow. “Oh, is that right? Well, firstly, there is nothing _simple_ about you, Detective Inspector Lewis. And secondly, you appear to be suffering from acute short memoryitis, _sir_. When I’ve made my views on other kinds of things obvious to you—the distribution of labour on the cataloguing of the 97 pieces of evidence in the Briars case, to give a recent example—you most definitely have not appeared to _prefer it_ , as you claim.”

Robbie laughs. “Two very different kinds of making it obvious, James: complaining about cataloguing rusty gardening tools, and kneeling in front of me and—you know . . .”

“Kneeling in front of me _and_?” James leans down and whispers in his ear. “ _Say_ it.”

 _Fine_. “Kneeling in front of me and giving me oral sex.” He flashes James a smug look, as if it’s some kind of achievement, saying oral sex. Maybe it is.

James breathes in sharply. “Say, _giving me a blow job_.”

 _Jesus_. “Giving me a blow job.”

James growls. “Say, _sucking me off_.”

Right. If this is the game they’re playing . . . Robbie digs a foot into the mattress to get a bit of purchase, and flips them over, so that he’s sprawled on top of James. James gazes up at him, eyes wide with surprise—and arousal. 

“I’m going to have to spell it out for you, am I?” He lowers himself so that he’s pinning James to the bed with his weight. He drops his mouth down to James’ ear. He can’t quite believe what he’s about to say.

“I _prefer_ it when you kneel in front of me and take my big, hard cock into your mouth, and suck me off. Is that what you wanted me to say?” 

“Oh, _God_.” James is squirming under him, clearly enjoying every second.

“I _prefer_ it, James, when I can see my handiwork, all over your chest.”

“ _Robbie_.”

He’s starting to get a feel for it now. The trick is to concentrate on James’ obvious arousal, and then just open his mouth and speak without thinking too much.

“I _really_ prefer it, when I can wrap my hand round your cock and toss you off.”

James is grinning from ear to ear; looking up at Robbie with obvious desire. “ _Understood_.” 

Robbie can feel James getting hard again. Christ! It’s been less than an hour. Robbie hasn’t got a hope in hell of keeping up with him. “There’s just a slight problem.”

James immediately looks worried. “What?”

Robbie smiles apologetically at him. “It’s ok. It’s just, well, if I’m honest, what I’d really prefer at the moment is some stew, and then a bit of a cuddle in front of the telly. I don’t think I’m up to much else tonight, if you catch my drift.”

Instantly, James’ smile is back. He strokes Robbie’s cheek, and leans up to give him a sweet little kiss on the mouth. “Stew and a cuddle sounds perfect.”

“Did I just hear you say that the stew I cooked sounds perfect? I’m going a bit deaf; you might need to say it again; make sure I heard right.”

James laughs and Robbie prepares himself for some smartarse, culinary insult; but it doesn’t materialise. 

“What I said was, _you_ and a cuddle sounds perfect.”

Well, those are words he never thought his sergeant would say to him. He rolls off James and gets himself comfortably squashed up alongside him, with one of his arms draped across James’ chest. To be honest, the last 24 hours have been one big surprise after another: the stories; the sex, for Christ’s sake; the bittersweet realisation that James has cared about him so much, maybe even loved him, for a long, long time. The immensely touching knowledge that James has been writing stories of people lost, and grief healed—and hearts mended—like a kind, patient witch, casting healing spell after healing spell, searching for the right magical words to make him fully alive again.

He leans over and kisses James softly on the temple. “Thank you.”

“What for?” James sounds puzzled.

Where to start? “For looking out for me. For sticking with me.” 

Robbie kisses him again. “For being you.”


End file.
